To the Ends of My Heart
by Amorina Deanna
Summary: I was sixteen when I fell in love. Ours was forbidden, that I knew. But, for some reason, I simply could not get enough of him. He never knew I existed. r/s, next gen, romance, angst


I was sixteen when I fell in love. Ours was forbidden, that I knew. But, for some reason, I simply could not get enough of him. Those stormy gray eyes that held more expression than one would ever think possible; that blonde hair that he would shake out of his eyes with a toss of his head; that pale complexion that some said made him look like ice, but I thought suited him just fine.

But, some of the things I loved most about him were the reasons why we could never work. His Slytherin robes, his Malfoy name. I loved how the green of his Quidditch robes made his eyes look ocean blue instead of thunders storm-gray. I loved how he had learned to move past his name, to rise above what people expected him to be.

He never knew I existed. I was the quiet Ravenclaw girl. You know the one that when people look at their yearbooks they point to and ask, "Who is she?" Except, instead of a name or some distinguishing feature, the person will remember that I am the daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley, one of the famous Weasley-Potters.

They will wonder why they never saw me at school. They will not be able to remember what house I was in or that I had the highest grades in the class. They will wonder if I was on the Quidditch team and then, after counting on their fingers (ten of us in total, spread out in three different houses) they will come to the conclusion that I could not have. They will wonder, "What did this one do?" They will wonder where I was in the family. (Younger than Victoire, Teddy, James and Albus; older than Lily and Hugo) I will not be remembered.

I think it was my family that made me who I am. They always looked at me endearingly. I heard them murmur, heard them laugh, "Quiet Rose," "Shy Rose." I always know what they called me, what they thought of me. The thing about being the quiet one is that no one ever notices you are there. You are invisible.

I was invisible. I never saw a reason to be loud, my cousins and brother had that more than adequately covered. Our Weasley-Potter gatherings got so loud, one could not even hear their own thoughts. Who was I to contribute to the ruckus? No, I was – and still am – much happier sitting in a corner with a novel set on my lap. I would pick up after the younger ones and wash the dinner dishes. No one ever questioned how the faces stayed clean and the dishes sparkling. It did not matter, they were done.

Even my excellent grades did not inspire any attention. Perhaps I liked it that way. I quietly worked my way through my seven years at Hogwarts. I always had my notebook in hand. I recorded everything. I wrote all the time. And, I read. Boy, did I read. There was always a new novel I was working through. I wanted to be a journalist. I did not want to interview people; I did not have enough confidence for that. No, I wanted to observe. I wanted to observe and write what I saw.

I remember the first time I _really_ saw him. I had seen him before; we had been in school together for five years before that fateful autumn day in my sixth year. I was walking on the grounds and he was returning from Quidditch practice. I remember watching him toss his hair and grin as his teammates laughed around him. It was a warm day and they all had their sleeves pushed up to their elbows. His alabaster skin shone in the sunlight, especially compared with that of the dark-skinned Zabini next to him.

I remember the butterflies. I had never felt like this before. They hatched and began beating against the inside of my stomach. I did not know how he, this strange, mysterious boy managed to cause such a reaction in me. I had listened to my dorm mates and I knew that they all fancied themselves in love at some point or another. I had heard them talk about how a given boy had made them feel but I had never experienced it, myself.

Now, I had and I knew what those obnoxious giggly girls were going on about. It was a wonderful feeling. You felt as if you could fly. It was the worst feeling I had ever experienced. Because, along with the swoop of joy, came a rush of fear, and a waterfall of sorrow.

For I knew that we could never be. Even if someone like him would look at someone like me there was too much history, too many differences. It would never happen. I smiled, even as tears rolled down my cheeks. I did not bother wipe them away. I would allow myself this one thing: this sorrow at finally seeing something and knowing that I could never have it, it would never be mine and not matter how much I wanted it, he would never see me.

I would see him many more times over the next two years of our time at Hogwarts. He would never look twice at me; his eyes would move right over me, over my head.

I began to watch the Quidditch games from the top of the astronomy tower, a Slytherin scarf wrapped around my neck.

I watched his endless stream of girlfriends. The star Slytherin never wanted for a girl. They would change monthly and I often caught wind of fights that had taken place over him.

I most remember him, however, from a year and a half later, at our graduation. He wore a dark green dress shirt that contrasted beautifully with his pale skin and light hair. He stood there, next to his parents. One hand on his belt, the other reaching up to push his hair back. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He stood with a quiet confidence and all that I wanted was for him to look at me, once, to realize that I exist.

It is now ten years since my graduation day. I am twenty-seven years old. My cousins have begun to marry off and start their own families. I have attended more weddings than I care to count since graduation and now, I am the last of our generation. The one still holding out. Not that anyone cares. They all have new families and children or grandchildren in their lives. No remembers quiet Rose.

I followed my dreams and became a journalist. I have just spent the last four years undercover in America.

I have managed, however, to keep tabs on my classmates. Well, one classmate in particular. Not that he has made it very difficult. Star Quidditch player, Scorpius Malfoy. He is engaged to be married. I remember Veronica from school. She was a few years behind us in school. She never did give up when she wanted something. And, in school, there was one thing that Veronica wanted above all else. She wanted to be Mrs. Scorpius Malfoy. She is about to succeed.

I look up from the editing of my new piece when my boss enters my cubicle and places an envelope on my desk. "Buy a dress." He says gruffly.

I open it and look. I have received a press invitation to the Malfoy-Parkinson engagement party. I look up at my boss and nod in compliance before he marches back to his office.

My dress is a cerulean that fits in with the silver decorations. I walk through the doors and begin to mingle with the crowds. I listen to conversation, writing things down as I go.

I see him. He is talking to some of his guests, veronica on his arm. As if he senses me watching him, he looks up and his eyes meet mine for a split second. My stomach flips over and I curse myself for my reaction to him. He turns back to his fiancé and the moment is over. And it is then, that I know that this is over. Whatever it was – if you could call it anything is over.

A single tear roles down my face and I brush it away. I sigh and glance at my notepad. I have enough notes to write the story. I turn and walk out the door.

I was sixteen when I first fell in love. It took me eleven years to fall back out.


End file.
